Doom for me was sometimes
in the barest whisper
of a sound. It was
in a subtle shading of a window,
it was sometimes
nothing at all, pure imagination —
doom came, and came,
and came, and it
always turned out to be nothing.
After the rush of fear,
I was left with the relief
that all needed do was pray,
or less, just sit still and wait,
and my end, my finality,
my death: it would
pass on by like so much
dust blown in my face....
I know that one day it will be
the ending of all my days,
but I think it comes
not like what it was
back when the storm
crackled on in my inner visions.
I think it comes like
a tide over a sandcastle:
slowly, until, as it lies there,
the tippy top is submerged,
and the sand settles down
back into the sea, the source,
from which all life once began.
